


heart in the hands of the city

by theundiagnosable



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: (im trash don't look at me), And yet, Friends to Lovers, M/M, boys being emotionally obtuse dorks, giant metal cows, memes as flirting, not tags i ever wanted to use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-04
Updated: 2017-01-04
Packaged: 2018-09-14 19:17:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9199058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theundiagnosable/pseuds/theundiagnosable
Summary: It's not a love at first sight thing, except for how it kind of is.





	

 

It’s not a love at first sight thing, except for how it kind of is.

Mitch can’t remember a time when he didn’t know about Auston Matthews, one way or another. He’s been _aware_ of him for a long time; years, at least. It’s probably impossible to play hockey and _not_ know about Auston Matthews.

Somehow it feels like the easiest thing in the world to go from that, a name and some really good stats, to meeting the team in the pre-season to leaning against Auston’s stall in the Leafs locker room, scrolling through his list of Toronto tourist sites.

“CN Tower?” He asks.

Auston shrugs into his t-shirt, hair still wet from his post-practice shower. “Nope.”

“Hockey Hall of Fame?” Auston shakes his head. “Aquarium?” Another head shake, and Mitch waves a hand, dismissive. “It’s cool, I haven’t been to that one either. Fish are gross.”

Auston huffs a laugh and Mitch pockets his phone, businesslike.

“You laugh, but dude, you haven’t seen _anything_. We’ve got a lot to do.” Mitch glances at his watch. “We can probably make the Hall of Fame before it closes, if we hurry.”

Auston laughs again, like he thinks Mitch is joking. It takes him a second of staring to register Mitch standing, expectant, in the doorway. He raises an eyebrow. “For real?”

They do make it before closing, barely.

Auston chirps Mitch’s rushed parking spot the whole way into the building, which, okay, there’s a reason why Mitch is the one who drives when they carpool, he’s seen Auston’s parallel parking and there is _no way_ the guy can take the high ground here. Mitch doesn’t mind the teasing, though – it’s fun. Familiar.

The girl at the front desk stares at them like she thinks maybe she recognizes them from somewhere, but Mitch shepherds Auston into the displays, hiding behind a group of tourists before she can figure it out.

 The Hockey Hall of Fame is exactly what it sounds like. Pretty cool to see, but Mitch has been here before, so he ends up mostly watching Auston. Not the worst way to spend an afternoon.

They get into the big hall, lined with jerseys. They’re the only ones there, the tour group having been delayed at the Gretsky exhibit, and there’s a weird hush over the room. Him and Auston exchange a look. It’s – not intimidated. Reflective. Like here, surrounded by legends, they’re on a cliff’s edge.

Mitch feels like he should be whispering, like he’s talking in church. He compromises and winds up saying, in a weird, semi-hushed voice, “Think that’s going to be us?”

Auston, neck craned, stares up at the jerseys then back at Mitch, serious. “Not you.” Mitch barely has time to register being offended before he continues, “Yours wouldn’t take up as much room.”

Now Auston grins, bright and teasing. It makes him look young – not that he’s _not_ young – enough that it catches Mitch off guard.

“ _Not cool_ ,” Mitch protests, once he manages to speak. “We’re, like, the same size.”

Auston laughs out loud. “I could probably bench press you.”

“You could not.” Mitch scoffs, indignant.

“I could definitely bench press you,” he says, then, eyes lighting up, “I mean, I have the NHL app. We could check.”

He digs for his phone in his pocket, and Mitch tries to snatch it from his hand. Auston dodges out of the way, then again, then the security guard is giving them a dirty look as they chase each other down the hall lined with jerseys, kids laughing in church, and somewhere along the line Mitch Marner forgets what it’s like not to have Auston Matthews next to him.

\-------

**Auston Matthews sent an image.**

**Mitch Marner:** did you just

 **Mitch Marner:** its not 2009 i cannot bELIeVE you just sent me a rage comic

 **Mitch Marner:** who are you even

 **Mitch Marner:** you come into MY CITY, on this, the eve of my gauhgters wedding

 **Mitch Marner:** ***daughter’s

 **Auston Matthews:** gaughters

 **Mitch Marner:** Matts.

\-------

They’re waiting in line in the Tims on Bay when Auston is recognized for the third time that night. It’s happening more often, recently, as the start of the season gets closer. Casual fans starting to pay attention, stuff like that.  Even, apparently, in Tim Hortons at 11:30 on a Tuesday night.

Mitch is pretty used to it by now – comes with the territory of hanging out with the number one draft pick. He leaves Auston to his fate, pays for their drinks, and watches Auston crouch down for a selfie.

Eventually he makes his way over to the table, against a wall and facing away from the entrance. Mitch is on the verge of cracking a joke about puck bunnies, it’s on the tip of his tongue, but something in Auston’s expression makes him think better of it.  

“Hey,” he kicks Auston under the table instead. “You good?”

“Yeah.” Auston sips his drink, looking pensive. Mitch waits. Eventually, Auston speaks, gruff and something close to self-deprecating. “It’s weird. I don’t know. I haven’t done anything yet.”

Despite himself, an almost-smile tugs at Mitch’s mouth. “Yet.”

“Yet,” Auston agrees, and there it is again, that careful lack of expression, like he’s talking to the media. Mitch’s mom calls it the hockey monotone, loves getting on his case about it.

So Mitch gets it.

Doesn’t mean he has to like it.

He chugs half of his hot chocolate in one shot, getting to his feet even though it’s barely been five minutes since they sat. He has an idea. “Want to see something cool?”

Auston blinks.

It’s a pretty warm evening, like the city’s being dragged kicking and screaming into fall, not quite willing to let go of summer. Still, it was raining earlier, and it’s a weeknight, so not many people are out walking. No one stops them.

Mitch leads them past the big, fancy banking buildings, ignores Auston’s questioning look. One of the buildings has gold dust in the windows, sparkling in the streetlights.

“Okay,” Mitch says, as they’re getting close, “Get ready to have your mind blown.”

They round the corner, Auston a couple of steps behind, and when they get to the little field, Mitch gestures grandly. “Tada.”

“What. The shit.”

They’re standing next to the little patch of grass between the buildings, populated with park benches, a couple trees, and a bunch of giant metal cows. Maybe they’re just regular-sized cows – Mitch doesn’t know how big cows are, really – but the statues are dotted all around the field, grazing or sleeping or staring. It’s pretty awesome.

“Art is so weird,” Auston says, awestruck.

“I used to name them,” Mitch says, scuffing his toe along the grass to see if it’s too wet for walking, “when I was little. Daisy and Bessie, stuff like that.”

The grass passes the test, so with a cursory glance at Auston, Mitch walks onto the field and heaves himself up onto the nearest cow’s back, feet dangling down. The metal is cold through his jeans, still a little damp from the rain. Auston stares, looking torn between laughing and booking it back to the car.

“Come on.” Mitch pats the cow’s big metal hide next to him.

Auston crosses his arms. “I’m not sitting on the cow.”

“Auston,” Mitch says. “Sit on the cow.”

Auston sits on the cow.

“We look so dumb.”

“Probably,” Mitch agrees cheerfully, then elbows Auston’s side. “Admit it’s awesome.”

“It’s so weird.”

“You said that already.”

“Shut up,” Auston retorts, but Mitch can hear the smile in his voice.

He sighs, content, and leans back, folding his hands behind his head so he can look up at the sky. Beside him, after a moment, Auston does the same. You can’t see any stars from here, nothing cool like that, but there’s something about tonight, anyways. It feels _big_ , like stepping onto the ice before a game or the stage before the draft. Like it just hit Mitch, here, on the back of a giant cow statue, that it’s real, he’s in the National Hockey League, this is a thing that’s happening.

On a whim, he breaks the silence. “I’m glad we both got the Leafs. It would’ve sucked not to meet you.” And it’s not, like, a dramatic declaration or anything, but something about the way that Auston turns his head and looks at him makes Mitch suddenly self-conscious. “What?”

“You’re so,” Auston starts then stops, turns and stares up at the sky.

Mitch snorts. “That’s cool, man, just don’t finish your sentence-”

“Shut up,” Aston says, fond, then: “Me too.” He doesn’t clarify what he means.

Mitch gets it anyways.

If he squints, the lights from the buildings look like stars. And it’s that, maybe, or how Auston shoves Mitch off the cow and Mitch retaliates by tossing handfuls of wet grass at Auston’s head until they’re chasing each other around the field – and, okay, Mitch isn’t a poet, duh, but it’s –

It’s nice.

\-------

Then Auston goes and scores four goals in his NHL debut.

The crowd in Ottawa are losing their minds, chanting Auston’s name even as he makes their team look like they’re the rookies. Mitch’s voice is horse from screaming.

“Holy shit!” Mitch hollers in Auston’s ear, leaping half-onto his back through a pile of their teammates and mussing his hair. “You didn’t tell me you were a literal god!”

He can barely see Auston’s face with all the helmets in the way, but on the big screen, when they show the replay, he’s doing a shit job at hiding his smile.

The atmosphere carries over into the locker room after the game. Sure, they lost even with the four goals, which is maybe the most Leafs thing that Mitch has ever heard – is it bad that he still thinks stuff like that now that he’s on the team? – but it’s hard to watch one of your teammates become a record holder and not feel at least a little awesome.  

Mo flings a towel at Auston’s head, beaming. “Dude, Matts, any girl in Ontario right now. Any _girls_.”

There’s a chorus of wolf whistles as Auston shrugs out from under the towel, shaking his damp hair our of his eyes. Naz chimes in, sagely, “Not Ottawa. Sens.”

“Ottawa’s in Quebec, dumbass.”

Across the room, half-undressed, Zach narrows his eyes. “It is decidedly fucking not. How long have you lived here?”

They dissolve into bickering, everyone joining in as the press starts to stream into the room. A solid three quarters of the reporters make a beeline for Auston. Mitch catches his eye over a camera guy’s head, shoots him a thumbs up and an exaggerated wink. It takes Auston a while to school his smile.

\-------

Here’s the best part:

It’s not a one-time thing.

Mitch scores in his first home game, which feels pretty sick, even though his mom was in the bathroom and missed it, and it doesn’t stop there, he keeps pulling the points, _they_ keep pulling the points. And it’s not perfect – him and Auston don’t get to play on the same line much outside of practice, and the win/loss ratio is still, well, Leafy, but like, 2012 Leafs instead of 2015.

Someone on twitter starts trying to trend _#theleafsareactuallygood_ , which is maybe a kind of backhanded compliment, but it’s a start, and he’s part of that. They’re a part of that.

\-------

**Auston Matthews:** _hey_

**Auston Matthews:** _what shirt_

**Auston Matthews sent an image.**

**Mitch Marner:** _blue to match your eyes ;)_

 **Auston Matthews:** _i don’t have blue eyes_

 **Mitch Marner:** _blue to match my eyes ;)_

The winky face is maybe overkill, but Mitch sends it anyways, doesn’t think too much about it. The little bubble appears at the bottom of the screen, the dots that mean Auston is typing. Mitch waits, but no message comes.

Still. Nothing to think about.

( _Blue like our fucking jerseys_ , Mitch realizes later. Duh. How the hell did he miss that one? _Blue like my eyes, what even-_ )

\-------

(Auston does wear the blue, for what it’s worth.)

\-------

High Park is mostly moms and little kids at this time of day, so not exactly a big hockey demographic. Mitch and Auston race each other down the big hill without anyone stopping them, then fall into step behind a school group as they reach the zoo. Mitch’s favourite place on the ‘Toronto Things Auston Has To See’ list.

It’s small, nothing too exotic, but they take their time walking past the peacocks and wallabies, take turns trying to get a goat to eat out of their hands.

The city’s hovering on the tail end of fall, sidewalks carpeted in orange and red leaves. It’s nowhere near cold yet, barely even nippy, but Auston’s in a scarf and beanie. The beanie might not count, ‘cause it’s only half on his head, but it’s the thought that counts, probably.

They stop outside of the yak’s pen, sidestepping another group of kids on a field trip to get up close. Mitch actually reads the information plaque for this one – ‘Yak Facts’, it proclaims in bright red block letters – and the yak gives a disinterested blink.

“What is it with you and cows?” Auston asks.

“Okay, wow,” Mitch says. “First of all, that’s a _yak_ , you ingrate.”

 “Kind of looks like you,” says Auston

“Huh,” says Mitch. “Well, you can go fu-”

Auston claps a hand over Mitch’s mouth, effectively smothering the rest of his sentence. The guy should consider a career as a goalie if this forward thing doesn’t work out, that’s how fast he is.

Mitch blinks, caught off guard. “What are you doing?” he asks, except he’s muffled by Auston’s hand so it sounds more like ‘wah ah you doo-ih’. Auston gets the gist.

“There’s kids,” he says. “And a teacher right there.”

His hand is still plastered across Mitch’s face, which is more than a little distracting, but not so much that Mitch can’t enjoy the fact that Auston Matthews is apparently a teacher’s pet. He can for sure get a solid week of chirping from this.

Also, side note, Auston has big hands. The thought sticks in Mitch’s head like it’s important, which it definitely one hundred percent is not. Weird.

The yak behind the fence gives a slow blink, staring balefully. Kind of judgey-looking, if Mitch is being honest.

He sticks out his tongue and licks Auston’s palm. Auston pulls back at once, wiping his hand on Mitch’s jacket and pulling a face.  

“You’re disgusting.”

“Sure,” Mitch agrees, wiping at his mouth. He hopes that wasn’t the hand Auston used to feed the goat. “Want to know a yak fact?”

“No,” Auston grumbles.

“I’m going to tell you anyways.”

“Yeah,” Auston says. “I know.”

\-------

Everyone makes a big deal about the singing. Which – look, Livin’ on a Prayer is a great song, firstly, and the whole thing is at least 70% the camera guys’ fault because, hello, there’s a professional hockey game going on and they’re filming two rookies singing on the bench. Priorities.

The media loses its collective shit, which seems like overkill, sort of, but then Bon Jovi tweets them. So, admittedly, that part is pretty cool.

“You pissed?” Mitch asks Auston on the way home later, when they’re stopped at a red light.

Auston frowns. He’s toying with the radio, surfing stations like he can’t make up his mind. “Why would I be pissed?”

Mitch drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Dunno. They’re turning it into a thing.”

“A thing.” Taylor Swift gives way to the Bee Gees.

“Yeah. And you’re normally pretty serious at games. I thought-”

“Don’t,” Auston interrupts. He leaves the radio on the Bee Gees. Stayin’ Alive. Thematically appropriate, maybe.

Mitch raises an eyebrow. “Don’t think?”

“Don’t worry,” Auston corrects. “It was fun.”

“Oh,” Mitch says. “Okay, then.” He turns the radio up, starts nodding his head to the familiar falsetto, and almost misses when Auston says,

 “I like it when you sing.”

Mitch glances over at the passenger seat, halfway through a lane change. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Auston says, simple, and something in his voice doesn’t leave room for argument.

\-------

Here’s the thing: Mitch knows that Auston likes him as much as he likes Auston.

Some of the guys make fun of them for being codependent, even though they aren’t, really. It’s not like they _need_ to spend most of their time together, it just turns out that, between practice and carpooling and hanging out after games, they do.

It’d be easy to figure that it’s a one-sided thing, annoying talkative Toronto kid following around the number one draft pick. And fine, maybe Mitch wondered the same thing after some bad practices, near the beginning of the preseason, ‘cause he knows that he comes on strong sometimes, can’t help it.

Only Auston follows him around just as much, maybe more, unofficially claiming the spot next to Mitch on the bench and seeking him out even on their days off. Auston’s the one who suggests carpooling, even when it’s past the point where he can plausibly get lost on his way to practice. Auston’s the one who snapchats Mitch with dumb memes at 3 AM.

So there’s not much to question, after a while. If Mitch comes on too strong, he figures, Auston’s right there with him. It works for them.

\-------

Like this:

They join an online Battlefield server, sprawled across Mitch’s couch, getting chirped by the twelve year olds on PSN who have no idea they’re playing against two NHL players.

Mitch grabs a handful of popcorn from the bowl balanced on the cushion between them, keeping one hand on the controller.

Auston jams the x button down to fire. “Did you hear the questions from media today?”

“Not really.” Mitch ducks behind a wall to reload, sneaks a peek at Auston’s half of the screen. He’s still ploughing forward in a tank. “Why?”  

Auston shrugs, eyes on the TV. “Asked if we coordinated our outfits.”

“Holy shit,” Mitch says. They totally did. Well. Auston texted him his outfit then he picked a matching one. Still. “That’s adorable. _We’re_ adorable.” Then, upon consideration, “Mostly me, probably, but still-”

Auston opens his mouth, probably with a lame comeback, but is interrupted when Mitch’s half of the screen goes red as he’s taken out by a sniper.

“Ha!” Comes the tinny voice over the speaker. Fucking twelve year olds. “Get wrecked, man!”

“Yeah, Mitch,” says Auston in his best monotone, “Get wrecked.”

Mitch tosses a kernel at his head. Auston’s tank drives over a mine and literally explodes two minutes later, so, ha. Karma’s a bitch, Matthews.

Their team loses pretty horribly, after that. Auston presses the rematch button without asking.

Mitch ducks his head to hide a smile.

\-------

And this:

Mitch wakes up slowly to the dull hum of the plane’s engines, a few quiet conversations. The journey home after a roadie is always more subdued.

He blinks, slow, mind still fuzzy with sleep. It takes him a couple minutes to realize that there’s a little patch of drool where his head was, which, coincidentally, happens to be the sleeve of Auston’s hoodie.

“Ew.” Mitch says, peeling himself off of Auston’s shoulder. “Sorry.”

 “Doesn’t matter.” The flickering light from the little TV screen casts shadows across Auston’s face. Mitch doesn’t recognize the movie.

He swipes a hand across his eyes, voice is still slurred with sleep when he says, “’re we there yet?”

“No. We’ve still got an hour.”

“Oh.” Mitch leans back against his headrest. His eyes start fluttering closed again, despite himself. Auston, soft and rumpled in his worn-out hoodie, peers over at Mitch and looks almost amused.

 “Go back to sleep,” he orders, gently.

“’kay,” Mitch mumbles, already mostly out. “Move me if I’m annoying.”

“You’re always annoying,” Auston chirps, but when Mitch wakes up forty minutes later, he’s leaning on Auston’s shoulder again and Auston is dozing too, face pressed into Mitch’s hair.

At least he didn’t drool.

\-------

Auston picks up Mitch’s call on the first ring. Impressive, considering it’s past midnight and they have a game tomorrow.

“Auston,” Mitch says, without bothering with a greeting. “Auston Matthews, what the literal actual fuck?”

“Hi.” Auston says. “What?”

“Don’t ‘what’ me. Why do you own a Harambe sweater?” Mitch stares down at the instagram post, torn between horror and a weird, can’t-look-away shock. It’s like a car accident with his friend’s face on it.

“Why don’t you?” He can hear the rustling of pillows and the creak of a mattress as Auston sits up in bed and leans back against his headboard like he’s settling in for a long talk. It sounds like he’s smiling, which is a weird thing to be able to tell over the phone, but Mitch would swear on it, sure as anything.

Thinking too long about that feels dangerous, so he does the logical thing and chirps for all he’s worth. “You spent actual, real-life money on an actual, real-life article of clothing with a meme on it. Think about your choices, really think for me.”

\-------

“Okay, which one?”

Mitch is sprawled on Auston’s bed, the one closest to the door, in the hotel room. He’s scrolling through instagram, but he turns his gaze toward Auston when he speaks. He’s standing over by the closet, holding up two suits.

Mitch frowns at the one on the right. “Is that plaid? Don’t wear plaid.”

Auston looks mildly put out, even though the plaid suit is objectively horrifying on multiple levels. “It’s not that bad.”

“It is.”

“What are you wearing, then?” He retorts.

Mitch looks down at his phone, likes Dylan’s latest post. “Purple.”

Auston raises an eyebrow. “And I’m not allowed to wear plaid?” 

“Why would you wear a plaid suit when you have literally any other option?  Like,” Mitch rolls over onto his back, leans on one of the too-clean hotel pillows, “the one with the two buttons.”

Auston mouths the word ‘buttons’, looking confused, then holds up the other suit like he’s realized something. “It’s called double breasted, dumbass.”

“Whatever,” Mitch sticks out his tongue, grotesque, and watches as Auston shrugs into the other suit jacket. Mitch slow claps. “That’s hot. That’s going to get giffed.”

Mo, stuck rooming with a rookie, groans from the other bed. He’s muffled by his pillow, making a valiant attempt at a nap.  Mitch kind of forgot he was there. Oops. “Jesus fucking Christ,” Mo gripes, “suck his dick while you’re at it, Marns.”

“I would,” Mitch shoots back, “but your mom’s so much better at it.” 

He barely ducks the pillow that goes flying at his head. He knows that he’s probably going to regret his comeback as soon as Mo’s fully awake, but Auston laughs, bright and easy, and Mitch can’t bring himself to mind.

\-------

 **Auston Matthews:** did i leave my tshirt at your place

 **Mitch Marner:** probably

 **Auston Matthews:** u gonna give it back?

 **Mitch Marner:** nah

\-------

Mitch could probably drive from the ACC to Auston’s place blindfolded, at this point. That’s a good thing, tonight, because he spends half of the ride home staring at the passenger seat.

Auston hasn’t said a word since he got in the car, slamming the door shut behind him. Normally, Mitch’d give him shit for that, threaten to make him walk or, worse, take the TTC, but the look on Auston’s face stops him in his tracks. Mitch even switches the radio to a news station, that’s how bad it is, because Top 40 feels like a it’d be a misstep tonight.

It is, in the understatement of at least the last century, not a fun car ride.

He’s never seen Auston really mad before, off the ice. It is, in what should probably not be a surprise, intimidating as _fuck._ If Mitch was smart, he’d probably drop Auston at home and leave it at that.

“So,” he says instead, when they’re rounding the block to Auston’s street, because keeping his mouth shut has never been Mitch Marner’s specialty. “I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about it.”

Before Auston even gets a chance to respond, the guy on the radio says his name.

_“...and that change from the Kadri line was a disaster. Look, Jay, I know you and the Auston Matthews fan club don’t want to see it, but if wiz kid can’t perform, perform sustainably, there’s only so much we can expect from the Leafs this season. Let’s turn it over to our correspo-”_

Mitch hits the power button, sending the car into silence, way too late for it to matter. Auston’s knuckles are white on the door handle.

Mitch’s stomach sinks. It was dumb of him not to realize, he’s seen the way that every sports reporter in the GTA has a homing beacon on Auston Matthew’s imperfections. It’s been worse than usual, these past few games. Asking Auston about his goal drought. Asking _Mitch_ about Auston’s goal drought, like somewhere along the line he became the resident Auston Matthews expert without realizing it – and, okay, that part might be true.

It doesn’t feel like it, tonight.  

Mitch pulls into the driveway of Auston’s building and puts the car in park. He can see the doorman’s silhouette in the doorway. Neither he nor Auston makes a move.

“Good game tonight,” he says, finally. It falls flat.

Auston just shoots him a dark look, doesn’t even bother arguing but somehow manages to disagree anyways.

“You’ll get one soon,” Mitch says, helpless.

“I know.” Auston snaps, and tugs off his seatbelt with about eight million times more force than necessary. He fumbles as he tries to pull his arm free of the belt, trying to untangle himself and flailing for a couple of seconds before stopping and slumping back against the seat. It’s like he deflates, all the angry gone in the space of a second and replaced with defeat.

Mitch has the sudden urge to hug him. He doesn’t do that, duh, because they’re grown-ups, ostensibly, and he doesn’t think Auston would appreciate it. He just sits, instead, waiting for something he’s not quite sure of. Looks pointedly outside the window, at the dashboard, anywhere but at Auston.

Finally, after what must be a solid five minutes, Auston sighs and presses his wrists against his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Forget it.”

Auston shakes his head, eyes still screwed shut. “No, I-”

“Auston.” Mitch waits until he meets his eyes. “I said forget it. Okay?”

“Okay.”

The silence in the car is teetering at the edge of awkward.

Auston still doesn’t leave.

Mitch bites the bullet. “Want me to stay over and watch TV?”

Auston nods.

“Okay.” Mitch echoes. “That’s a start.”

\-------

He sends Mitch an image that takes ten billion years to load. It turns out to be a shitty quality .jpeg of that bulldog and his little scrappy chihuahua friend from Looney Tunes, with the caption ‘ _us_ ’. Which, firstly, _rude_. Rude and inaccurate.

 **Mitch Marner:** _im 6 ft tall asshole_

 **Auston Matthews:** _your 12_

 **Mitch Marner:** _12 INCHES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

 **Auston Matthews:** _tall_

 **Mitch Marner:** _nononono that was a dick joke don’t use it to mock me_

\-------

“It’s _outside_?”

Willy cackles from the backseat, pulling back and trying to use Mitch as a human shield when Auston swats blindly at him. Auston, on his part, looks genuinely dismayed at the realization that the day trip suggested by Leafs PR is not, in fact, taking place in a heated mall. Mitch would feel bad for him, but, well. It’s kind of hilarious. The guy’s in a _baseball cap_ and it’s ten below zero. He’s going to fucking die.

 “You can’t put a Christmas market inside, man.” Zach explains, up front with Auston. “Ruins the ambiance.”

“’Ambiance’?” Auston echoes, skeptical.

Nylander nods, authoritative, chiming in, “Yeah, like exposed brick and stuff.”

Auston frowns, face all scrunched up like exposed brick is a more daunting topic than a faceoff with Chara. “What are you even talking about?”

“Shh, we’re here,” Mitch says, nose pressed against the tinted window as they pull up to the distillery district.

It’s a really nice place, a little hipster-ish for his taste, but there’s a reason why it’s one of the most popular places in the city to bring a date.

Or, y’know, a bunch of hockey players. That works too, apparently.

They wander around for a while, aimlessly looking at fancy ornaments while the camera crew trails after them, almost managing to be unobtrusive. Then, because Willy decides they need to regain some masculinity after they spend too long looking at blown glass angels, they traipse over to the rickety-looking ferris wheel. Mitch isn’t quite sure how a kiddy ride decorated with twinkly lights is supposed to be any cooler, but he waits in line anyways and ends up in a cart with Auston, their sides pressed up against each other in the cramped cart.

“Who fits in these?” Mitch complains, then is jolted backwards as the ferris wheel starts spinning, faster than expected. Auston tries and fails to stifle a grin, and Mitch sighs. “Shut up.”

The ride creaks its way up, stopping periodically to let other riders on and off. If it were anyone else, it would maybe be awkward, stuck in a confined space for so long, but the two of them have fun, pointing out cool cars in the street, dicking around on Mitch’s snapchat, stuff like that. The camera crew, down at the back of the line, seems distant as anything, and their absence means Auston is relaxed for the first time all day.

So maybe the ferris wheel isn’t that bad.

“No way,” Auston says, one arm flung across the back of the cart, easy. “That lady’s eating ice cream. No way. It’s like fifteen degrees.”

“It’s minus ten,” Mitch corrects, peering in the direction of Auston’s gaze. There is, in fact, a woman walking and eating a large ice cream cone. “And get used to it. You’re in Canada, remember?” That part is bull, actually, because it’s _freezing_ and the lady eating ice cream is absolutely batshit insane, but he’s got a reputation to maintain. It’s a matter of national pride, practically.

“How could I forget,” Auston grumbles, but there’s no real heat behind it.

Mitch settles back into his seat, Auston’s arm pressed against his back. “Pretty sick, though, right?”

“Yeah,” Auston agrees, and for a couple of minutes, both of them just stare down at the people below. Then, like an afterthought, “Fucking cold, though.”

Mitch snorts. “Maybe if you weren’t too cool to wear a real hat-”

“You said it, not me,” Auston retorts, then cracks up at his own joke like it’s the most hilarious thing he’s ever heard. And it’s nothing special, the same stupid chirping that makes up ninety percent of their conversations, only this time Mitch looks over at Auston and his breath catches in his throat, actually audibly hitches, and it’s like everything just – stops.

Auston’s cheeks are red with the cold, lips slightly parted, wind screwing with the strands of hair that peek out from the front of his hat and blowing them across his face. His eyes are squinted half-shut from the sun. Maybe from laughing.

It’s the best thing Mitch has ever seen.

It feels like Mitch has been checked into the boards. It had to be now, it had to be on a _ferris wheel_ , of all the tired-ass clichés. Like he’s Brad Pitt in a rom-com, or, like, whoever’s normally in rom-coms; not that this is a rom-com, not that this is anything because this is _Auston_ , his _friend_ , and Mitch isn’t an expert but he’s pretty damn sure that friends don’t look at their six-foot-three hockey playing friends blinking against the sun and think the word ‘beautiful’.

Mitch should look away. He doesn’t. Auston looks out at the market, oblivious, and Mitch wishes, stupidly, in the part of his brain that still works, that he’d paid more attention in English class, because there’ve got to be words for this, somewhere, but all he’s got is this feeling in the pit of his stomach, like, _oh, shit_.

\-------

Nothing changes.

Obviously, nothing changes. It’s not a thing, will never _be_ a thing, because Mitch is nowhere near dumb enough to do something like get feelings for a teammate; and if, hypothetically, he _was_ that dumb, he wouldn’t be dumb enough to do something about it.

They still play videogames after practice, still drag each other to overpriced tourist sites. His home screen is still that picture of Auston in the Harambe sweater. Auston’s mom still asks about Mitch when she skypes.

Auston snapchats a picture of his suit before a game, then ‘ _good?_ ’. Mitch watches the numbers tick down in the corner of the screen, has an intense, seven-second argument with himself over whether or not he should screenshot, and once the picture times out, sends a swooning emoji.

They’re friends, same as always.

It’s not a thing, except when it is.

\-------

Mitch isn’t a small guy. Not by any standards, ever, actually except for the fact that he works with literal giants. And it’s fine, he’s dealing with it, playing well enough to show that – ha, ha – size doesn’t matter.

And then someone at the Leafs holiday party gets the bright idea to hand Auston a baby.

As soon as Bozie hands his son over, Auston immediately abandons any pretense of being cool in favour of becoming a panicked mess, cameras forgotten, holding Kanon out to Mitch like he’s a hand grenade instead of a toddler. He’s never been this visibly nervous, and the part of Mitch that still appreciates irony is thoroughly enjoying this.

Mitch knows he’s smiling like an idiot, half-laughing at Auston and half at himself. They wind up standing face to face, two of them holding one twenty pound baby. Fucking Auston, Mitch thinks slightly hysterically, with his big-ass hands that completely blanket Mitch’s like they’re nothing. It’s unfair, frankly, and shouldn’t be allowed, ever.

Kanon, bless his tiny little heart, decides to be a bro and go for Auston’s throat. It’s enough of a last straw that Auston gives up, handing Kanon back to his dad, “You take him, you take him.” His hand leaves Mitch’s, and Mitch can’t decide if he’s more relieved or disappointed.

(It’s disappointed. He’s a bad liar.)

One of the PR women starts cooing over Auston and the baby, and Mitch seizes the opportunity to make his escape before he does something stupid – which, because there’re only so many places to hide in their conference room, winds up meaning that he stands by the food table and hopes the chocolate fountain is enough of a distraction.

 _Fucking_ Auston, Mitch thinks again, piling his plate with chocolate covered strawberries; with his big hands and big shoulders and big everything-

 “Hey. You good?”

On second thought, Auston’s big everything is the exact wrong thing to be thinking about right now.

“Depends,” Mitch says, impressively casual, considering. “Is that drink for me?”

Auston sighs, but hands over his cup, compliant. It can’t have taken him more than ten minutes to make his way over here, like the two of them are magnetized. That thought probably shouldn’t make Mitch feel as proud as it does.

Mitch sips his drink – Auston’s drink, technically – and leans back against the wall. Auston mirrors his posture, and they stay like that for a while, looking out at the party. They went all out, photobooth and everything. It’s a big hit with the kids, and with Mo.

 “Strawberry?” Mitch offers his plate, and Auston frowns.

“You’re being quiet,” Auston says. “It’s weird.”

He says it like any observation, monotone and without eye contact like he’s talking to a reporter, and that’s how Mitch knows he’s hurt. He feels, immediately, like the world’s biggest piece of crap. Making his friend feel like he did something wrong just because he can’t get a fucking grip, nice one, Marner, you asshole.

“Am I?”

Auston’s brow furrows more. He’s going to have wrinkles by 25, and it’s going to be Mitch’s fault. “Don’t bullshit.”

Mitch sighs. Someday, he’ll make time to reflect on how utterly whipped he is. “I’m trying to be mad at you.”

“Oh.” Auston takes a strawberry from Mitch’s plate and chews slowly, like he’s thinking. “Is it working?”

“Not really.” Mitch ventures a small smile, and Auston doesn’t smile back. He’s not going to drop this.

“What’d I do?”

It’s not a lie, not technically. “Nothing.” Then, because Auston still looks wary and Mitch is, apparently, a sucker for self-torture, he says, “Want to sleep over and watch the Grinch?”

“Animated or live action?” Auston asks, and intentional or not, it’s an out.

“Matts,” Mitch says, “I’m hurt and offended. _Of course_ animated. What do you take me for?”

He rants about the faults with Jim Carrey’s Grinch the whole way home. He knows he’s rambling, A+ subtle avoidance tactics, but Auston doesn’t call him out on it, aside from the occasional half-hearted defense of Carrey-Grinch. Which, okay, Mitch may be going through some things right now, but this is a matter of _pride_.

The conversation somehow devolves into them bickering over the best kids’ books, with Auston on team Seuss and Mitch feigning – okay, mostly feigning – outrage at the fact that Auston’s never read _The Hockey Sweater_. The awkwardness of the party disappears like it was never there, and Mitch doesn’t cry but he almost could, now that they’re back to being Auston and Mitch, easy and fun and his favourite thing.

The popcorn is in the microwave, Netflix all queued up. Auston’s standing in the doorway of Mitch’s room, while Mitch digs through his dresser for clean pajamas, because like hell they’re going to watch a movie in street clothes.

Mitch tosses Auston a pair of sweatpants. “And,” grabbing the first t-shirt he sees and throwing that as well, “voila.”

He turns around, tugging his own shirt off and swapping it for his favourite Guns N’ Roses tee. When he turns around, Auston’s still standing still in the doorway, shirt halfway unbuttoned, staring at Mitch’s t-shirt like it’s-

Oh, fuck.

“Is this mine?”  He sounds confused. Not because it’s his shirt from camp this summer, even though it is; and not because it’s at Mitch’s place, even though it very much is. He’s confused because, and there’s no chance he didn’t notice, _shit_ , the logo’s partially worn away from so many washes, which it definitely was not when Auston left it here.  

It’s not a comfy enough shirt for Mitch to explain it away. The material’s kind of itchy, actually, not the kind of thing any reasonable person would steal and wear unless they were, like, pathetic levels of pining. Which – surprise.

 “Oh,” Mitch says, a million years too late. “Uh. Yes?” It comes out as a question.

“You wore it?”

“Sorry.”

Auston stares, nearly filling the doorway, half-looking like he wants to move, and there’s something in his eyes, just for a second, that makes Mitch think _maybe_ -

The moment is gone as soon as it begins, a nothing. Auston changes without any more comments, bitches about the animated Grinch the entire movie. It’s almost disconcertingly normal, except:

There’s at least a foot and a half between them on the couch that night.

It feels intentional. Careful.

And –

Maybe.

\-------

They win the classic in OT, and it’s probably not _the_ best moment of Mitch’s entire life, but it comes really fucking close.

They’re behind at first, then everything happens at once, four goals, one of them his. And, sure, they’re still the Leafs so they blow a three goal lead, but Auston scores in overtime and they win, they win, they _win_. Mitch watches his breath come in puffs, hears 40,000 people scream-sing Livin’ on a Prayer and thinks, _this, this is the best things will ever be._

People are actually saying the words ‘Leafs’ and ‘Playoffs’ in the same sentence. More often than not, that sentence is preceded by ‘Matthews and Marner’. Their names are starting to blur together in all the reports, MatthewsAndMarner, like one entity. Mitch can’t bring himself to mind.

It’s a new year, and the possibility in the air feels like electricity.  

“That was so awesome!” Mitch enthuses, once they’re in the parking garage. They’re the last team members out, delayed with press, and they take their time now, meandering through the empty parking spots. “And the crowd, singing, that was _awesome_. And my goal- but your goal was a fucking beaut, I’m serious. We were-”

“Awesome?” Auston deadpans from a few steps behind, but Mitch bounces on the balls of his feet, undeterred. Even Auston can’t pull off being unaffected today – he hasn’t stopped grinning since scoring the gamewinner.

 “Awesome!” Mitch finishes. He spins to face Auston, punching him in the arm affectionately. “You and me, man. We’re going to be, like, the next Crosby and Malkin. Benn and Seguin. Kirk and Spock!”

“Shrek and Donkey,” Auston suggests innocently, and Mitch groans, trying and mostly-failing to not laugh.

“You’re such a- don’t ruin a nice moment.”

Auston raises an eyebrow, teasing. “We’re having a moment?”

“Yeah, ‘til you shat all over it with a meme.”

“Shrek isn’t a _meme_.” He has the nerve to sound offended, which just makes Mitch laugh harder.

“Stop talking about Shrek! Shrek has no place in this conversation-”

“Ogres are like onions,” Auston quotes, with the absolute worst Scottish accent Mitch has ever heard.

“That was fucking awful.” Mitch can barely choke out the words from laughing so hard.

Auston laughs, eyes bright. “Wasn’t,” he says, and seizes the opportunity while Mitch is doubled over to give him a noogie.

Mitch swats him away, retaliating, and for a few moments, it’s like a game of tag. Their footsteps echo throughout the garage. “It was!”

Auston trips him up as they get close to the car, but catches Mitch by the arms to steady him before he can fall. “I think the voice actor’s Canadian, actually, so-”

“I know who Mike Myers is, oh my god.” Mitch rolls his eyes, slightly out of breath. “How are you my favourite person?”

Their eyes meet, both of them still mid-laugh, Mitch’s words hanging in the air, too weighty for a day like this. They both realize at the same moment that Auston’s still holding Mitch by the elbows.

Both of them stand there, statue-still, Mitch bracketed between Auston’s arms with his back to the car door. He should move. He doesn’t move. He’s still high off the win. He should still move.

He doesn’t.

But neither does Auston.

Auston gets this look in his eyes, the same intense stare that he gets before doing something that’s going to end up on the front page of NHL.com; for a second, ridiculously, Mitch wonders if he’s about to get checked.

“Hey,” he says, stupidly, not sure where he’s going with it. Then, probably for the best, he doesn’t say anything else because Auston surges forward and kisses him.

So, yeah, that’s a thing that happens.

Objectively, it’s a pretty terrible kiss. Auston’s hands are _freezing,_ and they’re both still sweaty enough that it’s a little disgusting, and the car door handle is digging into Mitch’s back where Auston is pressing him against the car.

Mitch screws his eyes shut, grabs at the front of Auston’s shirt and pulls him closer, closer, closer, because fuck objectivity, _this_ , right here, is the best thing that’s ever happened.

Too soon, way, way too soon, Auston pulls back. Mitch leans forward, instinctive, makes an embarrassingly breathy sound. A smile ghosts across Auston’s lips as their noses brush. They’re all in each other’s space, closer than usual, breathing each other’s air. It feels like the crowd should be cheering, now, but it’s just quiet. Mitch can hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears, or maybe it’s Auston’s, they’re standing close enough that he could believe it.

They’re in the middle of a busy arena, in an only-mostly-empty parking garage in broad daylight. This is maybe the most stupid thing either of them has ever done. Neither moves.  

Mitch can’t remember how to talk.  

“You’re my best friend,” Auston says, then, so at least one of them has their shit together.

“You too,” Mitch says, when he figures out how to make his mouth work. If this is going to be the ‘we should just be friends’ talk, it’s off to a really weird start.

Auston doesn’t break eye contact, but there’s a faint blush on his cheeks when he draws back ever-so-slightly and says, chin up like he’s waiting for Mitch to challenge him, “But also I want to date you.”

He says it like it’s simple, and maybe it is. Mitch exhales. He’s still gripping Auston’s shirt like he doesn’t remember how to let go. “That would be cool.”

Auston ducks his head, almost bashful now, as if he didn’t just make out with Mitch against a car like some bad boy in a teen movie. “Yeah?”

“Yes. Definitely. Absolutely. Just-” Impatient, Mitch pulls Auston down, bridging the gap between them and kissing him again, biting at Auston’s bottom lip and tugging. This kiss isn’t bad, not even close, not by any standards. It’s maybe something like perfect.

Then Auston draws back _again_.

“You wore my shirt,” he says, and he’d probably object to the term ‘giggle’ but that’s what he does, like he’s been waiting for the chance to say it, and if Mitch wasn’t entirely gone for him before he is now.

Still, he’s got chirping responsibilities. “Oh, _now_ he smiles. Now he fucking smiles, two hours after the game.”

Auston grins, lifts a hand and runs a thumb over the smudges where Mitch couldn’t quite get off his eye black. He’s looking at Mitch like he hung the moon – how long as that been going on for? – and it’s cool because Mitch is almost certainly looking at him the same way.

MatthewsAndMarner, he thinks, and yeah, he could get used to that.

\-------

(“It’s ‘cause of you, you know,” Auston says, like an afterthought. “The smiling.”

“Yeah,” Mitch says. “I know.”)


End file.
